


You Don't Need Wings to Fly

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angels, Bullying, Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, Thoughts of Suicide, schoolboy violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 23:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: It's A Wonderful Life AUJohn, an angel, is sent from Heaven to help a desperate Sherlock Holmes by showing him what life would have been like if he had never existed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Čeština available: [Nepotřebuješ křídla, abys létal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124238) by [tiberia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiberia/pseuds/tiberia)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Тебе не нужно крыльев, чтобы летать (You Don't Need Wings to Fly)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13242999) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



> Originally posted last year, now completed.

Sherlock could feel every snowflake as it touched down on his hair. The coldness of the bridge’s steel frame beneath his hands was biting into his skin, just as the water below surely would, once he summoned the courage to fling himself into it. The churning foam-ice of the Thames looked even less appealing than usual, and yet the cold and shock of hitting the black water would surely kill him quicker and with more kindness than many other ways he could think of.

Sherlock took a breath, and put a foot on the framework, heaving himself up. In the distance, church bells were beginning. Christmas Eve. As fine a day as any to do this. What was Christmas but another day of _families_ and _loved ones_. And Sherlock was none and neither to anyone. No one would miss him. Maybe Mycroft would give him a moment’s thought. But that hardly counted.

 _Merry Christmas,_ he thought as the wind caught under his coat.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Sherlock’s hands slipped on the railing, and he panicked, gripping hard and cursing his body’s failure to simply let himself fall. He looked around.

A small-ish man with greying hair, and what could probably be described as a kind smile, was leaning against the bridge. The snow fell on him like confetti, though Sherlock could see no footprints where the man had walked up. He must have been stood still longer than he thought.

“Go away,” he snapped.

“Shan’t,” the man shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. He glanced over the side at the iron water of the Thames. “You’d be an idiot to go through with it.”

“With what?”

“Suicide.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, then stepped back onto the walkway, shrugging. “It’s against the law to commit suicide around here.”

“Yes,” the man walked over, “it’s against the law where I come from, too.”

“And where’s that?”

“Heaven.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

The man smirked. “You don’t believe me.”

“Obviously. I believe religion is best left to those who enjoy talking to their imaginary friends in public long after it has lost any sort of childish appeal.”

The man shrugged. “That’s ok, you believing in me isn’t part of the deal. Now, are you going to come away from this bridge? I believe if you stay here, you might do something foolish, and unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?!” Sherlock spat. “You have no idea what’s brought me here, so shut your mouth and fuck off home, why don’t you?”

“Because it’s my job to look after you,” the man shrugged again.

“Look after me?”

“My name was, and I suppose still is, John,” the man held a hand out. “I’m your guardian angel.”

Sherlock ignored the hand. “You’re insane.”

“Afraid not,” John lowered his arm. “I’m here to convince you that you should remain on Earth, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “How’d you know my name?”

“I told you,” John smiled, “I’m your guardian angel. I know everything there is to know about you.”

Sherlock blinked.

“And yes, that does include your internet history,” John rolled his eyes. “You still want to jump into the Thames?”

Sherlock glanced over the side, weighing up. It would be very easy to fling himself in. On the other hand, this mystery man was almost interesting enough to try and unpick. Who believed they were really an angel, unless mad? And this John didn’t seem too mad, aside from every single word he said. And yet, staying alive was just…

“I don’t believe much good will be achieved by me continuing to live,” Sherlock said softly.

“You mustn’t talk like this.”

“Well, I am,” Sherlock brushed a pile of snow onto the ground. “The world does not need Sherlock Holmes. It never has.”

“You’re making my job very difficult, you know.”

“Your _job_?”

John sighed patiently. “I’m here to convince you to live, Sherlock. If I can do so, I will earn my wings. That is – the ability to come and go, to fly between Heaven and Earth, within reason. At the moment, I am trapped in Heaven, and although it is paradise, it is somewhat restrictive if you have a desire to help people.”

“And you want to help people.”

“It’s what I did when I was alive,” John said.

Sherlock stared.

John shook his head, digging his hands further into his pockets. “You honestly believe killing yourself would make everyone feel better, do you?”

Sherlock sighed. “Perhaps. Or maybe they would be better off had I never been born.”

John’s face lit up. “Oh, now there’s a thing. You think that?”

“I do.”

John clapped his hands together. “Well, then. There we go.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean ‘there we go’?”

“I mean it’s done. The world is changed. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you were never born.”

Sherlock stared. “What is this? Some sort of hypnotism?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then –” he went in his pocket for his phone, and came up with nothing.

“You don’t have a phone,” John smiled. “You never bought it, because you were never born. I’ve let you keep your clothes on, though. It’s cold.”

“Have you pickpocketed me?” Sherlock snapped.

“Stealing is a sin,” John said seriously.

Sherlock shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I’ve had enough of talking to lunatics. Good night.”

“Good night, Sherlock,” John said brightly. “I’ll see you shortly, I expect.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Eighteen Years Earlier**

 

Sherlock came out of violin practice, rotating his wrist carefully to stretch it out. Another perfect performance, his teacher had said. Sherlock had accepted the lying compliment without comment. He wasn’t perfect. He had a long way to go, yet. But he was getting there. He was better than his teacher already, and they both knew it. It was only a matter of time before the twelve-year-old was sought after to play in an orchestra, and then solo. He could make a career out of it. Sherlock quite liked the idea of that. A career built out of music.

He ignored the other students as he trotted down the stairs. They were all dull, all predictable, all cast from the same mould. None of them could ever play as well as him. None of them would ever be told they were perfect and it be true.

He reached the ground floor and sat on the bottom step, opening his bag to find the lunch his mother had packed for him. He’d put it in the bin as soon as he could. He was just fishing out the plastic tub of sandwiches, when he heard a shout.

No, not a shout – a rallying cry. A ‘come this way and join in’ call. The kind bullies make when they have someone cornered.

Sherlock shook his head, feeling somewhat thankful that it wasn’t him, this time. He was good at fighting, now – he knew how to use his skinny body to hurt people. It meant his tormentors stuck to verbal abuse rather than physical. That was much easier to block out. It only got loud at night, when Sherlock tried to sleep. He didn’t know how to turn off the name-calling that surfaced in his mind as he lay in the dark.

“…Holmes!”

Sherlock looked up. No one was calling him, were they? He stood, lunchbox in hand, looking and listening for the source of the name.

There was a scream.

And Sherlock dropped the plastic box.

He knew that scream.

He left his bag behind, and ran, for the first time, towards the sound of fighting. He didn’t have to run far.

In the corner of the lowest stairwell, there were five boys brawling. Well, four of them were brawling. One of them was cowering, trying to cover his head and face from more punches.

Mycroft. Stupid, fat Mycroft. Gotten himself cornered.

Sherlock was almost tempted to stay and watch.

But the biggest boy swung a fist, catching Mycroft at the jaw, knocking his head back against the concrete where his head snapped back with a sick CRACK.

Sherlock was never, in all the years that followed, exactly sure why he acted as he did then.

He swung his legs over the banister and dropped.

Barely eight stones, and yet enough to flatten two of the bullies as he landed on them from a great height. Sherlock was up before they could register, grabbing the biggest boy by the throat and yanking him backwards with both hands. There were punches to Sherlock’s body and head, but he took no notice, dragging the largest to the floor and kicking him in side of the head. Someone yanked his arm, and that hurt, so he had to fight properly, then. Not with punches, as people did it films – that wasn’t how you hurt someone. Sherlock slammed into a boy with his shoulder, driving his elbow up into his ribcage, kicking out at another who was trying to grab his hair. They struggled, all of them together, hands and arms and legs and bites and god knows what else as they fought.

And then it was over, as Sherlock panted hard, the boys retreating, Mycroft on the floor, hand to the back of his bloodied skull.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft gasped.

“Shut up,” Sherlock tried to catch his breath. “I’m not doing it again. What were you thinking, letting them catch you like that-”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted. “You… your hand.”

“What?” Sherlock felt the rush of adrenaline slip. He felt, for the first time, a fiery heat spread through the bones of his left hand, and it got hotter. Hotter, burning… pain. He raised his hand, and the bottom fell out of his stomach. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock’s pale hand was bloody. And worse, the back of it was swelling, and his thumb… was not pointing the right way. And neither were his middle and ring fingers.

Mycroft stood up, shaking, having to keep a hand to the wall. “It’s broken.”

“No,” Sherlock said stupidly. “No, it’s…”

“We need to get you to the nurse. To hospital. They can set your bones –”

Sherlock shook his head, his throat closing up, his eyes and nose starting to burn, too. “I…”

“Sherlock, now. Come on, your hand’s swelling, I can see it happening!”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hand was mangled. His hand… which he needed to play. Which he needed to be perfect. He let out a sob.

“Come on,” Mycroft put an arm around him. The first time he’d done so since they were very small. Sherlock couldn’t protest. He couldn’t think beyond staring at his ruined hand, and wondering how he would ever pick up his violin again.

 

*

 

Two days later, Sherlock was back at school, his left hand in a complex metal brace, pins in his skin and bones helping the multiple fractures to set. No one gave him trouble about his injury. Even the usual bullies seemed subdued by the robotic appearance of his hand. Sherlock didn’t say a word to anyone. He didn’t go to music practice. He sat at his desk and worked in silence.

 

*

 

When his hand was finally freed from the metal keeping it in place, Sherlock went back to the music room.

He opened his case, and lifted the violin out.

And dropped it, his left hand not having the strength to hold the neck.

He stared at the wooden thing, having half a mind to kick it across the floor.

Instead he picked it up carefully, and shoved it under his chin, his left arm already protesting. He lifted the bow, and drew a shaking note, his fingers crying out in pain.

He would never be perfect, now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Present Day**

 

 

Sherlock trudged through the snow, hands in his pockets, scarf up over his chin.

Maybe he should have jumped.

Maybe.

Tomorrow was Christmas Day, after all. A day for friends and family to celebrate. A day when Sherlock would hide indoors and lament the drop in crime rates that always happened around the festive season.

Festive. Ha.

He stopped at a crossroads and waited for the lights to change. A newspaper stand caught his eye.

**_CRIME WAVE CONTINUES TO SWEEP LONDON_ **

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. If there was a crime wave, no one had told him. Then again, Lestrade might not notice a crime wave if it was happening on his doorstep. Sherlock went for his phone, then remembered it was missing. Or stolen. By that – that weirdo on the bridge.

That man who’d called himself an angel.

You were never far away from the strange, in London.

Still…

Sherlock gave the newspaper sign another glance as the lights changed and he walked across. He needed to clear his head. Perhaps Molly was still at work. She tended to be, in case he needed her. Sentiment. And yet it worked to his advantage. It hadn’t always been the way. On the very rare occasional instances Sherlock had indulged in sentimentality, it had never worked out in his favour. Molly was both proof and denial of that. Perhaps that was why Sherlock kept her around.

Sherlock felt for his wallet, and found that gone, too, so resigned himself to walking the distance to Barts. Neon signs blared overhead, and he ignored them all, except –

He stopped outside a television shop, and stared at the image onscreen.

A newsreader stood outside court, speaking silently at Sherlock through the glass. She indicated behind her, and the scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen read: **_SERIAL SUICIDE-MURDERS TRACED TO LONE PERPERTRATOR_**

“Suicide-murders?” Sherlock breathed.

The news-screen changed to an illustration of the court proceedings, the defendant’s box empty. The screen was super-imposed over with a grainy photograph. One that sent a chill down Sherlock’s spine.

“The cabbie…” He leaned forward, hands on the glass.

_POLICE SAY THE SUSPECT DIED OF NATURAL CAUSES BEFORE THE CASE WAS BROUGHT TO COURT… SCOTLAND YARD IS STILL HUNTING FOR A MOTIVE… THE MAN APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN WORKING ALONE_

“He wasn’t working alone!” Sherlock shouted. “It was – it…” he looked about, feeling eyes on him. He walked quickly away from the window. His heart was racing. That had been the cabbie. The one Sherlock had handed to Lestrade _months_ ago. The one that had tried to get Sherlock to _play the game_. Well, Sherlock hadn’t felt like playing.

Except the news story didn’t make sense. He was arrested and imprisoned weeks ago.

Sherlock turned his coat collar up and hurried on, his head buzzing as he reached St Bartholomew’s Hospital. He let himself in using the correct code, and walked straight past the reception desk.

“Ex – excuse me, sir?” the security guard stood quickly. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Molly,” Sherlock sighed.

“Molly, sir?”

“Doctor Hooper.”

The guard frowned. “Sorry, I don’t… let me check the rooms,” he went over to his computer. Sherlock folded his arms.

“She’ll be in M23, as she always is, I expect.”

“M23… that’s Dr Brown’s room, sir.” The guard looked up. “You let yourself in, didn’t you?”

“Yes, as I have every week for several years, now are you going to let me go?”

The guard look utterly confused. “I haven’t got any record of a Doctor Hooper here, sir.” He turned his monitor. “See?”

Sherlock walked over and scanned the list of names.

There was no _Doctor Molly Hooper_ listed.

He suddenly felt very cold.

“Maybe she’s in another building, sir?” the security guard said helpfully.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock nodded. “Thank you for checking.”

“No problem, sir. Have a good night.” The guard showed him out, locking the deadbolt on behind him.

Sherlock stared at the darkness.

Molly should be here. It was as if she had been erased.

He shuddered. First the cabbie, and now Molly… and this apparent crime wave…

Sherlock rounded the corner, away from prying eyes, and went to sit down on the low wall surrounding the raised flower-beds. Something was not right.

“You alright there, Sherlock?”

He looked up.

John stood there, smiling mildly at him, looking almost amused at his discomfort.

“Have you done something to Molly?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John shook his head. “Rather… you weren’t around to do something for her when you were both younger. Since you were never born.”

“What have I…” Sherlock stopped.

“Remembering now, are you?” John smiled wider, and for a moment Sherlock thought he saw a weird glow around the man. “You had a great impact on Doctor Hooper’s life, and then she on yours in return. The world is a different place, now.”

“And the news story?”

“The cab driver was never caught because you weren’t there to catch him,” John said.

Sherlock stood. “This is crazy. I want… I want nothing to do with any of this. Get away from me,” he shoved John in the chest, finding him surprisingly well-built and steady. “Get away!”

“By all means, continue on your way,” John stepped to one side. “But you will have to prepare yourself for more changes, Sherlock. The world is not as you left it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Nine Years Earlier**

Sherlock was hunched over his experiment, pretending to take notes on the sample’s progress. When really, he was watching the other students. And their panic. Their disorganisation. Several students were giving up and putting their samples in the sterile chamber already. They would score 2:2s. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and made a tiny note on the development of his own petri dish. The sample bubbled and crusted at the edges, as predicted. Sherlock had run this experiment before, but the results always seemed to depend on –

“Oh! I didn’t realise you were still here, Sherlock…”

He sighed, looking up. “Of course you didn’t.”

Molly twisted a roll of paper in her hands. “I was just coming to make room in the chamber. I’m ready to put my sample in.”

“Then don’t let me keep you.”

She shuffled. “Have… have you almost finished?”

“Not quite. The samples I’ve run in the past tend to undergo a change within the first eight hours…” he checked his watch. “Or perhaps twelve. Is it really ten at night?”

“Yes,” Molly sounded like she wanted to laugh. “I thought you might be stuck to the stool.”

Sherlock shifted. His arse was indeed numb. “I think a short walk is in order…” he stood, feeling his sternum crack.

“Did – did you want to get a coffee?” Molly asked.

“I suppose so.”

They walked from the lab to the café. The bar was closed, so they used the coffee machines and took their drinks out to the balcony. The summer night was warm, and the traffic below was moving quickly, for London. The smell of petrol and tarmac drifted up, and Sherlock relished how much he adored the city. Three years of their undergraduate degree, and he’d never felt more free. Mycroft was off his back, in some big job at the government, and Sherlock was able to indulge his passions for learning, for problem-solving, and even for music. Not performing, of course – though his injury had long-since healed, there was a tiny tremor in his left hand that only a conductor would hear. A casual listener would think him perfect.

Sherlock knew the truth.

“So… what’re you doing next year?” Molly interrupted his thoughts.

“MSc,” Sherlock said. “Chemistry.”

“So… you’ll need a first?”

“I’ll get a first.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” Molly blushed.

“You’re going to get a 2:1,” Sherlock said, sipping his drink. “And transfer to that pathology course, qualify as a doctor. Your future is fairly predictable.”

“Oh,” she looked away. “Is that… bad?”

Sherlock blinked. “Bad?”

“You look a bit… like it’s boring.”

“It isn’t anything,” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s your life, not mine.”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“Why…” Sherlock turned his head slowly. “Why would I be interested in your life?”

Molly stared at him. Her mousy brown hair blew in the wind, and her eyes were wide. “I… I thought we were… friends?”

“Friends?” Sherlock almost laughed, then caught himself. “You thought… we were friends?”

She stared back, her eyes going glassy. “Or – or we could… we might… I thought…”

Sherlock stood straight, dread and resolution flooding through his body. “Molly. I am not interested in pursuing any sort of relationship with you. Is that clear?”

She turned as red as a fire engine. “I – I never said –”

“You didn’t have to,” Sherlock said softly, his voice filled with pity. “I know what you –”

“No,” she shook her head. “You’re just… you’re wrong…”

“Molly.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” she stood at her full (though still small) height, and glared at him, “not everyone who makes an effort to get through that thick skull of yours is trying to get into your pants!”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, and he watched wordlessly as Molly stormed away, disappearing back inside.

He gave it a solid minute before going back in himself. He went straight back to the labs, and found them deserted. Molly’s bag was gone. Sherlock shook his head, and went to screw the lid onto his petri dish.

The spotted Molly’s experiment, on her desk.

She’d stormed off without putting it in the sterile chamber. If it stayed out all night, it would invalidate her results. She’d fail her dissertation, miss out on her place on her graduate course.

Sherlock went over and picked up Molly’s sample, putting the lid on and carrying it over to the chamber.

He passed his own desk.

His elbow caught the half-screwed on lid of his own experiment.

The glass container skidded to the edge of the desk.

Sherlock lunged for it.

It tipped, dropping through the fingers of his weak left hand.

The dish smashed onto the floor in a dull explosion of glass and chemicals.

Sherlock didn’t move.

Then he took a deep breath, and put Molly’s experiment in the chamber, closing the door firmly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Present Day**

 

Sherlock ran away from the angel – the man – until he was out of sight. He stood, catching his breath at a street corner, trying to think what to do. He should go back to his flat, and sleep off this… whatever this was. This trip, or hallucination…

But he had no money for a cab, no phone… He scanned the road and caught sight of a chain coffee shop. They’d have a phone. He could ring Mrs Hudson and reverse the charges, ask her to send a cab to pick him up. He straightened his coat, soothed by the plan, and crossed the road quickly, letting himself into the busy coffee shop, and making his way to the back, where the customer phone was.

To Sherlock’s annoyance, it was in use, so he folded his arms and looked about the place, trying not to look like the only customer not giving custom, or nursing an enormous mug of overpriced coffee.

And then he saw him.

“Lestrade?” he said, pushing off the wall. “Lestrade!” he walked over with more confidence, now, to the grey-haired man, who was looking up in apparent fright. “Calm down, you’re obviously not on duty,” Sherlock snorted, settling into the spare seat beside him.

“Who are you?” Lestrade picked up his drink and held it closer to him, as if Sherlock was about to spike it.

“Oh, don’t you start as well,” Sherlock snapped. “Look, something… strange had happened.”

“Right…” Lestrade’s eyes flicked towards the bar.

“Molly. She’s not on the records at Bart’s. It’s as though she’s been erased.”

“And Molly’s your… friend?”

Sherlock stared. “Molly? Molly Hooper, you’ve worked with her.”

“Not likely,” Lestrade puffed out a sigh, and Sherlock caught a whiff of unbrushed teeth. “I haven’t worked for a few years, mate.”

Sherlock blinked. “You… what?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Yeah, they don’t like it when detective inspectors let crime waves begin under their noses.” He nodded at the television, this time, and Sherlock looked up. “Quite the revolving door in the Yard, these days. So, sorry mate, I can’t help you with a missing person.”

Sherlock stood as he looked up. The TV was silent, but the scrolling news went on.

**_STOLEN MISSILE PLANS TRACED TO BRITISH GOVERNMENT_ **

“How… why didn’t you talk to Mycroft?” Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, noticing now he was thin, unwashed, unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Mycroft?”

“Mycroft Holmes, my brother!”

“Is that a real name?” Lestrade almost smiled. “Look, mate, I think you’d better go home. I’m obviously not who you think I am.”

“Home…” Sherlock looked back at the telephone. It was now free, and Sherlock snatched at it, dialling the number for Mrs Hudson’s flat, plus the reverse charge number.

 **‘Please accept this reverse charge call from Queen Street,’** the robot trilled in his ear. **‘Press One within five seconds to accept this call.’**

“Who is this?” a scratchy voice came down the line.

“Mrs Hudson, it’s Sherlock,” he spoke quickly, knowing the line would be cut off. “Accept this call.”

“You’ve got the wrong number, there’s no one of that name here –”

“This is 221B Baker Street?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes – wait, how did you – ”

The call cut off.

Sherlock looked at the receiver, and placed it carefully in its place, before sinking onto the empty sofa beside the window. He didn’t even flinch when a second body sat down, and he recognised the greying hair and short stature. “What have you done to me?” he asked softly.

“To you?” John said. “Not a great deal. I’ve had to change the world, though.”

“The world?”

“Mm. You wished you’d never been born. Detective Inspector Lestrade, over there, lost his job years ago because you weren’t there to help him. Mrs Hudson never moved to London, and instead lives in the USA. Her husband is due for release in the next year, I believe.”

“Release? He was executed.”

“Only on your intervention, and you were never born, Sherlock.” John leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. “Funny. Lots of people’s lives are fairly straightforward, but yours is a whole series of ‘what if’s and ‘could have’s. Including with me.”

“With you?” Sherlock looked at the angel.

“Yes…” John met his eyes, and Sherlock could see the angel’s were a dark grey-blue. “We were supposed to meet, in your true life. But we never did.”

“What do you mean, we were supposed to meet?”

John smiled sadly. “I wasn’t supposed to die when I did. I was meant to barely escape, but there was… a mistake.”

“A clerical error, perhaps?”

“Maybe. But… we were supposed to meet. And be… friends.”

“Friends?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John nodded. “When I died, I saw it. I saw us. All the time we were supposed to have. The adventures. The life we were supposed to have, together. And I’d lost it. Lost my chance. So, when you were on that bridge, I asked to be able to go down to you. And here I am.”

Sherlock stared, unable to find the right words.

John shrugged. “If I can help you, I’ll get my wings, yes, but that’s not the important thing. The important thing is being able to be with you, even if it’s just for tonight.”

“You sound as though…”

“Yes?”

“As though we were… more than friends. In that missed future,” Sherlock hoped he wasn’t blushing.

John’s gaze dropped. “I could show you.”

“What?”

“I could show you. What I saw.”

Sherlock turned his body. “How?”

John raised a hand, bringing it close to Sherlock’s face. “I can show you, if you wish. I can show you what might have been. But, unlike this reality, it can never be. I am dead, Sherlock Holmes. Unlike you, I can never come back. Once you know what I saw, you can never unknow it.”

“I can delete it,” Sherlock shrugged.

John shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. If you think you would rather not know…” he made to lower his hand.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean… I want to know. Why you wanted to help me. There must be something in this… vision. That convinced you.”

John smiled, and touched the tips of his fingers to Sherlock’s forehead.

 

_A pill, falling from Sherlock’s fingers as John killed a man to protect him. They had known one another for hours._

_A swimming pool, a jacket filled with explosives. Hands on flesh, bodies close as the jacket was torn off. An embrace, disguised as help._

_Nights in, violin practice, John thinks it is flawless when it isn’t. Cups of tea, hands on knees, biscuits, an awkward moment at the bathroom door. A lost sock, forgotten on the carpet._

_A woman, fleeting in her appearance._

_A night in the same room, the beds too close together, the storm outside making them both shiver, but they won’t ask for comfort. Pride is a wedge between them. John kills again, for Sherlock. For him._

_And John. And Sherlock. And John. And Sherlock. And Sherlock and John, and Holmes and Watson, and the two of them, and running and London and chasing and music, and dancing secretly behind closed curtains, and a moment of touch that turned into several, that turned into a blur of colour and feeling and love and lust and breath and –_

Sherlock reeled back, banging his head slightly against the wall as he tried to shake off the images fading before his eyes.

John sat, quiet and sad, as he lowered his arm.

“John…” Sherlock breathed. “You… you were…”

“No,” John said simply. “I wasn’t. I was never there, never anywhere except dead in the desert. But I’m here, now,” he smiled.

“And if I’d never been born…”

“Either way,” John sighed, “that future is out of reach. All you have is tonight, Sherlock. That’s all I can give you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Nine Years Earlier**

Sherlock ignored every text and call from Molly over the summer. He took his grade – a flat 2:2 – and disappeared from his previous life.

Only Mycroft seemed to be able to find him. And that was hardly difficult – Sherlock’s brother had just been given some sort of vital role in government security. And yet, the older Holmes would always turn up in the dingiest of places, when Sherlock was being sick, or trying to stem bleeding that had happened once he’d yanked a needle from his arm too hard. He would always turn up. And they had an agreement – Sherlock would never lie to him about what he had taken, and how much.

Mycroft would stay with him, in the dirt and in the dark, waiting or monitoring.

Until, one day, Sherlock went somewhere his brother couldn’t find him.

He ditched his phone, his money, his keys. He left every item of clothing he had behind. He walked out of the flat he’d been staying in, and never walked back in again.

It wouldn’t be Mycroft who found Sherlock, in the end.

It was a down-on-his-luck detective inspector, who picked up Sherlock for stealing, and brought him in for questioning.

Sherlock sat in the waiting room as a cell was cleaned up for him. One of his arms was cuffed to the chair. He glanced at the person a few seats down, giving the man a quick once-over and deciding not to make conversation.

“Come on,” the detective walked in and unlocked Sherlock’s wrist. “Your turn in the hot seat.”

“You’re the good cop, I take it?” Sherlock let himself be led into an interview room. It smelled of coffee.

“Depends who I’m talking to,” the inspector shrugged, indicating Sherlock’s seat. He took his own on the opposite side of the table, and switched on the recorder. “Detective Inspector G. Lestrade, interviewing suspect #878 on suspicion of theft. Please state your name?”

Sherlock looked at the wheels turning within the machine. “I’d rather not.”

“Either you tell it me now, or we do a DNA swab and I find it out anyway.”

If anything would send Mycroft sprinting to the station, it was Sherlock’s DNA being run through the computers. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s the spirit. And address?”

“I don’t…”

“That’s fine. Now, Sherlock…” Lestrade looked at his files. “You’ve been arrested on suspicion of theft.”

“Suspicion?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, you haven’t been charged. Yet.”

“Why?”

Lestrade looked up. “Because you need to be questioned, first. Then we present evidence to the Crown Prosecution Service, and they decide whether or not we’re taking you to court. Would this be your first offence?”

“This is my first time in a police station,” Sherlock neatly avoided the question.

“My officers tell me you were caught on CCTV taking…” Lestrade picked up a sheet of paper, and a look close to disappointment crossed his features for a moment. “Taking several boxes of Elastoplast, one jar of anti-inflammatory cream, a box of condoms, and another box of paracetamol. Is that right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You can look at the CCTV, can’t you?”

“Why were you taking those things, Sherlock?”

Sherlock put his arms on the table, the palms of his hands up, the insides of his elbows visible. The dirty white skin was marked with cuts, track-lines, and bruises. “I need that sort of thing.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock’s arms. “So… you were stealing them?”

“Yes,” Sherlock put his arms back under the table. “I needed them, I was stealing them. I don’t have any money, and my skin is infected.”

“You could go to a doctor. A walk-in.”

“You need an address for a prescription,” Sherlock said. “I can’t go anywhere.”

Lestrade sat back in his chair. “Sherlock… circumstances don’t bend when it comes to breaking the law.”

“I’m not saying you should let me off,” Sherlock sighed. “I’m saying this is why. I’m not a criminal stealing to sell these things on. I needed them.”

“So where do you get the money for drugs?” Lestrade countered.

“I don’t pay with money,” Sherlock said.

“Hence the condoms?”

“No. Well, occasionally. But no. I pay with information.”

“What – you’re a spy?”

“No… I see things. I know things, about people. And people like to know what I know.”

“What do you know?” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.

Sherlock looked sharply at him. Then took a deep breath. “I know you’ve held this position of Detective Inspector for five years. I know you’re bored in this position because you keep being given the easy jobs, as you see them. You think this means your colleagues don’t trust you, well they do but they just don’t think you’re very good at your job. Your wife is having her second, no, third affair of your marriage, and last week you stayed on the sofa of a friend who has a cat, and you –”

“Stop that,” Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut.

The wheels of the tape recorder continued to turn.

Lestrade ran a hand over his hair. “Who told you to say that, then?”

“No one,” Sherlock said. “I just know.”

“How?”

“I can see it. Your often-removed wedding ring. Often-replaced, too. Your clothes – rumpled. You look older than you are, you haven’t been sleeping. You’re bored. I can see you’re bored. I’ve seen that look on my own face often enough.”

Lestrade blinked. “What else can you see? Anything useful? Anything you’d like to pass my way?”

“Information for a get out of jail free card?”

“Maybe.”

Sherlock smiled. “That man in the waiting room. The bald one. What was he arrested for?”

“Driving without insurance, why?”

Sherlock hummed. “Have you got access to a methane probe? Go and search his back garden.”

“Why?”

“Because I know a murderer when I see one.”

 

*

 

Five hours later, the door to Sherlock’s cell opened.

Lestrade let himself in, and Sherlock pushed himself off the mattress. “You were right,” the inspector said.

“Of course,” Sherlock yawned. “How many were there? I estimated three.”

“Well, we’ve found two, so far. Forensics are there, now.”

Sherlock nodded. “He thought you might question him about the murders. I could practically hear him coming up with lies. You’ll want to test the jacket he was wearing for DNA, too.”

“We will. Thank you,” Lestrade sat at the foot of the bench that doubled as a bed. “I owe you one.”

“Then let me go?”

“It’s not that simple,” Lestrade said gently. “CPS don’t want to prosecute you, but we need to give you a Caution. And that means we need to see you again.”

“Oh.”

“And someone called Mycroft is here to collect you. Apparently he’s your brother?” Lestrade smirked.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock covered his face.

“So, how’s this – you call in, here, in a couple of days, and show me you’re behaving yourself?”

“Sounds awful.”

“And I’ll keep you up to date with the case you helped me with?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’ve solved that one.”

“So… you want a new one?”

Sherlock lowered his hands. “…are you allowed to do that?”

“Depends. Are you going to do any more drugs and thieving?”

Sherlock looked away.

“Tit for tat, Sherlock. Think about it. I’ll tell your brother you’re gathering your things. And…” Lestrade stopped, and put a hand on Sherlock’s skinny arm. “You’re right about what you said about me, too. This case… it might just save me from redundancy.”

“I know,” Sherlock looked him in the eye. “But that’s not why I did it.”

“Maybe not, but thank you. Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re welcome, Lestrade,” Sherlock stood, wobbling. “I suppose I should go and face the music.”

“I’ll come with you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Present Day**

Sherlock and John left the coffee shop, and walked out into the snow. The last dregs of the London shoppers were vanishing into cabs and busses, and the cheery Christmas lights overhead made the streets look fake and plastic.

A newspaper seller folded up a sandwich board and threw it into the back of his van. Sherlock caught sight of the word **_CRIMEWAVE_**.

An ambulance blazed past, lights flashing.

“What happened to Molly?” Sherlock turned to the angel. “She wasn’t at Bart’s… What happened to her?”

John folded his arms. “Sorry, Sherlock, I’m not supposed to say.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to find these things out on your –”

Sherlock grabbed him by the jacket front. “This is one of the busiest cities in the world, now tell me where she is!”

John winced, and pushed Sherlock away. “No need for violence…” he sighed, and glanced guiltily up at the sky. “She lives at 421 Jubilee Drive, not too far from here.”

“I know it,” Sherlock turned his collar up. “Are you coming?”

“Don’t see as I have much choice in the matter,” John shrugged, “but I’d choose to come with you anyway.”

Sherlock snorted, and started walking, the man / angel beside him having no trouble keeping up. “You said you were in the desert. When you died.”

“Yes.”

“Why were you there?”

John smiled sadly. “I was a soldier.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. I was with the medical unit. Shot in the back, bled out before I could be airlifted…” John trailed off.

Sherlock looked at him. “I didn’t say I believed you, you know.”

“You do, though.”

“I… don’t believe in angels. Or god. Or an afterlife. I don’t know _what_ you are. Even if you have… magic hands.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Not the first time I’ve been accused of that,” John grinned. “But you can believe what you like, it doesn’t matter. You’re not here for a theology lesson.”

“Yes, yes, you’re here to show me…” Sherlock stopped at Jubilee Drive. “She lives here?”

“Yes, she does,” John stood beside him. “Nice area, isn’t it?”

“And I’m expected to think this is somehow worse than what she had before?” Sherlock started walking down the impressive street, massive houses flanking the road. Their gleaming cream and white faces reflected the snow, and the streetlamps gave the street an eerie falseness, like a movie set.

“Number 421,” John said softly.

Sherlock walked past the houses, the numbers jumping up by hundreds as some of the houses were converted into flats, or returned to houses… the street was a shamble of numbers, but finally, he stopped outside what was, apparently, Molly Hooper’s house.

“I can’t quite fathom that she lives here…” Sherlock put a hand on the gate.

“You’re going to knock?” John asked, surprised.

“How else can I find out what the hell is going on?” Sherlock climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. “It’s not as though –” he looked around, and John had vanished.

The door opened before he could gather himself.

“Yes?” a small, mousy woman peeped through the door. The chain was on.

“Molly?” Sherlock said quickly. “Molly, it’s me.”

The door opened a fraction wider. “I’m sorry, do I know you..?”

Sherlock stared. “We… I’m…”

“Mummy,” a little voice came from behind Molly. A small girl peeped around Molly’s leg. “Who’s that?”

“Just a moment, darling,” Molly looked back at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognise you, you must have made a mistake.”

“Molly Hooper, went to London Met, studied double-honours chemistry and biology before moving onto post-grad medical studies,” Sherlock reeled off. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Not quite,” Molly shushed the little girl on her leg. “I didn’t do anything postgrad… You must have the wrong person.”

“But why?”

“Just grades,” she shrugged, closing the door slightly. “Could have done with some help in my final year, but there you go. Sorry, I can’t –”

“What’s wrong with your face?” Sherlock asked quickly.

Molly looked up, then hid her face half behind the door again. “I have to go. Please don’t knock again.”

“Your face is bruised, what –”

“Goodbye.” She slammed the door.

Sherlock stood on the top step. He heard voices, then raised voices, and then the door opened again, this time the chain being wrenched right out of the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” a man grabbed him by the lapels and shook him hard.

“I’m just –”

“Know my wife, do you?”

“I thought I –”

“How the _fuck_ do you know my wife? Answer me!”

“I don’t,” Sherlock shoved the man in the chest. “My mistake. I don’t know her. I got the wrong house.”

“Seemed like you knew plenty about her past, to me? What are you? Stalker? Old boyfriend?”

“No,” Sherlock could hear the little girl starting to wail, and her mother – Molly – shushing her in panic.

“Right then, so you can fuck right off.”

Sherlock never even saw the punch coming. It got him between the eyes, and sent him down, skidding on the icy stone steps and down, banging his head hard on the gate. The front door to the house slammed, and Sherlock could hear more shouting beginning inside.

“Molly…” he tried to get to his feet, and found strong arms around his chest.

“Easy, Sherlock. That was a nasty fall.”

“Fat lot of good you were…” Sherlock looked up at the house. “He might kill her.”

“He won’t,” John said, with a certainty that sent a thrill through Sherlock’s bones. “But this marriage was never meant to exist. It was never meant to happen, Sherlock. Your tutoring of Molly, and saving her experiment, meant that she was able to train as a pathologist. You gave her a focus that wasn’t a relationship. In so many ways, you saved her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned against John as they left the street. “What happens, then? In this timeline? If I get more than a punch? Will I die?”

“You can’t die, here,” John said. “This is only a possible reality, for now. There are a few hours left before it becomes real.”

“Nothing… counts?” Sherlock shook his head, letting go of John to try and stand straight. “This… hallucination. Whatever it is… isn’t real?”

“It’s as real as you or I, but it doesn’t have to be permanent, therein lies the difference,” John said. “Why?”

Sherlock looked up at the falling snow. “That reality you showed me. In the coffee shop. What we were supposed to have… Is that really gone?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Except we have tonight,” Sherlock said slowly. “We could try and do it.”

“Do… what?”

“Be detectives,” Sherlock realised. “Run. See London… If tonight doesn’t count, then what do I have to lose? What do you have to lose?”

John bit his lip. “Sherlock… you will remember this. Whatever you do here, you will remember. Don’t start what you will regret being unable to finish.”

Sherlock put his head slightly on one side. “John… you know me better than that. When do I have regrets?”

“Three hours ago you regretted being born,” John pointed out. “Who’s to say you won’t regret this?”

Sherlock stepped forward, and held a hand out. “Let’s risk it, shall we?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Present Day**

 

John landed his hand into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock gripped it tight.

“We need to see the city….” Sherlock looked at their clasped hands. “In that vision… we were always running. We need to see… what’s going on.”

John glanced behind him. “Look, I’m not supposed to do this, but…” he let go of Sherlock’s hand and yanked him sideways by the waist. “…it is Christmas, after all.”

“Wait, what are you –” the rest of Sherlock’s words were stolen by a gasp as his feet left the ground. He grabbed John’s jacket in panic, the shorter man holding him firmly as they shot into the wintery sky.

The moon, wreathed in cloud, glowed in amusement at Sherlock’s shocked expression. The snow-clouds were clearing, and the night air was bitingly crisp. Below their shoes, London glowed in a blur of streetlamps, headlights and shop-signs.

And Sherlock didn’t see any of it. His eyes were fixed on John, who was grinning widely, half-laughing at his partner’s face.

“I thought you said you didn’t have wings?!” Sherlock yelled.

“I don’t need wings to fly,” John laughed. “There’s more to wings than flight, and there’s more to flight than wings. Here…” he let the two of them descend slightly, onto a building’s rooftop. John’s grip loosened, and Sherlock staggered to his feet, catching his breath as John brushed his jacket off mildly.

“Ok…”

“You wanted to see London,” John pointed out. “You can’t say this isn’t a decent view.”

“Yes…” Sherlock’s sides felt weirdly empty now John had let go of him. He walked to the edge of the building and looked out at the river. “Yes, it’s… ideal.”

John smiled. “I missed this.”

“This?” Sherlock looked at him.

“London, I mean. You can’t miss what you never had.” John met Sherlock’s eyes. “You wish I hadn’t shown you.”

“I don’t wish that,” Sherlock said. “I wish… I wish I didn’t have to end up wanting to die to meet you.”

John’s mouth opened a fraction.

“That – that thing you showed me…” Sherlock adjusted his coat. “…why did it blur, at the end?”

“Probably because it involved choices,” John said gently. “Some things are certain – or would have been. Others… we would have had to choose.”

“But it felt as though…” Sherlock shook his head. “Why do I feel as though I’ve… lost you?”

“I’m here,” John said.

“For now…” Sherlock frowned. “You can’t stay, and neither can I…” he looked at the angel, whose face looked so sorrowful. “What are we?”

“Strangers.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head again. “No, we’re not.”

John blushed, slightly. A pink tinge over those cheeks of fading tan that would never fully fade. Not now, because, angel or not, this man was something of the supernatural – he was not real, and apparently never could be, not for Sherlock.

Sherlock reached out, and touched John’s temple, just slightly, feeling the twists of greying blond hair, and the warm skin in the cold air. “You feel alive, to me.”

John gave a long blink. “To you.”

Sherlock flatted his hand against John’s face. “It felt real. What you showed me.”

John inhaled, and moved his face away. “I shouldn’t have showed you. That wasn’t what you needed to see.”

“What do I need to see?”

“You need to see what good your life has done in this world!”

“And you’ve shown me that even if I decide to live, I won’t have the one relationship that I seem to have been missing!” Sherlock stepped back at the realisation. “You said we were supposed to meet. But we never did… if we had met, would I have ended up on that bridge?”

John glared, lips clamped shut.

“Answer me!”

“You already know the answer to that, Sherlock,” John sighed. “What we were meant to have was meant to be more than friendship. A love, in whatever form, is never the cure for depression. Love does not cure. But it can offer opportunity. It can form distraction. It can give purpose. That’s what we both had. Should have had. And you can still have. You don’t need _me_ for that, Sherlock. Your life was still full, so _saturated_ with love, and you failed to see it. You helped your brother in a brutal fight. You saved Molly from a life where she believed her only purpose was to stay with an abusive husband. You helped Lestrade keep his job, to keep London safe. Safer.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I lost my chance to play in an orchestra. I all-but flunked my degree, through trying to help Molly, and then started taking substances to enhance my existence. I pointed out the obvious to Lestrade, who could have –”

“You think so little of yourself,” John said sadly. “So little, and yet you have done so much.”

“For individuals, perhaps. And yet they’re all still here, aren’t they?”

“Individuals?” John snorted. He pointed out into the darkness. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

Sherlock followed the point of John’s finger. The dark was punctuated by the occasional lamp-light, or search-light.

And there was, just visible in the distance, between the buildings, a large screen blazing an image, unreadable headlines scrolling past on the bottom.

“That…” Sherlock squinted, dread curling in his guts, his mouth going awfully dry. “That – that can’t be…”

“It is,” John said gently. “The British Foreign Secretary, James Moriarty.”

“That’s impossible,” Sherlock grabbed John’s arm to steady himself. “That… Mycroft would never.”

“Sherlock… Mycroft is dead.”

Sherlock’s head snapped over. “What?”

“Mycroft Holmes died aged eighteen in a school fight that got out of hand. The back of his head was struck repeatedly against a wall, resulting in severe brain damage, which he later died from.”

“That’s…” Sherlock shook his head. “He couldn’t…”

John shook his head. “Countless wars have begun, and been lost. Terrorist attacks, stolen documents and secrets… There was never a chance for Mycroft Holmes to stop any of it, because he didn’t live long enough. Mycroft hasn’t been able to save Britain, because you weren’t there to save Mycroft.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock’s legs gave out.

He sank to the rooftop, catching himself on a metre-box, which he leaned on heavily, his mind spinning.

“I…” he tried to remember how to speak. “I… did this.”

“No,” John walked over. “No, Sherlock, you prevented it.”

Sherlock stared up at the angel – no doubt left in his mind as to John’s nature – and shook his head.

“You saved the world, Sherlock. You saved Mycroft, and Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson –”

“Not you, though?” Sherlock asked, bitterly.

“Unless you pulled the trigger, you’re hardly to blame for that one.”

Sherlock looked back at the screen, where Moriarty, the apparent foreign secretary, was giving an interview about the crime wave, and blaming everyone and everything except his government.

“They say he’s in line to be the next Prime Minister,” John sighed. “Of all people.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “He can’t be.”

“But he is,” John said. “In this world, the one without Sherlock Holmes, he’s going to end up in power. And then…” his eyes went misty, for a moment. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine as well as I.”

“So, that’s it, then, is it?” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. “I prevented this. But isn’t… doesn’t that mean that my work is… done?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John smiled, and for a moment something like a drop of warmth ran through Sherlock’s blood. “You’ve only just begun. You think you’ve done enough for this world? Sherlock Holmes, you’re going to do such wonders.”

“Like what?”

“I’d hate to spoil it for you,” John smiled wider. “You’ll just have to live it.”

Sherlock realised he was smiling back, and put fingertips to his mouth, to feel it. He felt out of practice at it, and like he might not be doing it properly. “So… none of this has to be real?”

“It doesn’t have to be, if you make a decision before midnight.”

Sherlock looked at his watch, which wasn’t there.

“It’s ten, Sherlock.”

“Two hours…” he looked up at John. “Two hours left. What’ll happen to you, afterwards?”

“If I can help you, I’ll get my wings.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then… it’s back to Heaven.”

“So you win, either way.”

“It’s not about winning, Sherlock, not for me,” John came over, and took Sherlock’s hands as if they’d known each other for years. Somewhere, in Sherlock’s deepest mind, those false-memories of what could have been accepted the gesture, and glowed. “It’s about keeping you safe. I’m your guardian angel, and I want to protect you now, as I missed out on being able to protect you whilst I was alive.”

They both looked down at their clasped hands.

“This… this isn’t fair,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m sorry,” John made to let go.

Sherlock caught his hands. “I mean… it isn’t fair that I get to know you now, and then… you’ll go. After all we’ve been through.” He winced. “Were meant to go through, I mean.”

“I know,” John nodded, his smile finally falling away. He looked over Sherlock’s face as if it was a mirage. “I shouldn’t have shown you that future. But I had to show you why I came. Because I care for you. Was meant to care for you. In every sort of story, in every universe, in every version of you bar the one you lived, it’s us. Sherlock and John. Holmes and Watson. It was meant to be. That’s why I’m here.” He reached up, and stroked Sherlock’s hair, on the shorter side of his parting, tucking an errant curl down. “That why you’ll remember this.”

Sherlock stared, his chest feeling sat-upon, his limb aching, his skin freezing from the high, cold winds that wrapped over the rooftop.

The angel stared back, deep blue eyes full of truth, of longing, and of grief to come.

Sherlock kissed him.

John kissed back, folding his arms behind Sherlock’s head like wings, locking them both into place as Sherlock’s hands pulled them close together, bodies flush, sharing warmth against the falling snow, and the promise of the biting frost of a future that could never be.

“You’re cold,” John said when they broke apart.

“You’re not...” Sherlock let out a sad sigh, the sound broken and aching and alien to his throat – he’d never know the sensation battering against the cage of his ribs before, and he couldn’t name it. He never wanted it to stop, and he never wanted to feel it again. Because he was supposed to love this man – this angel – in his arms. But he didn’t. He ought to, but he just didn’t. And yet he knew, if they had the time they were supposed to have, it would be as easy a fall as jumping from the bridge.

“So, this is it, then,” Sherlock sniffed. “Choose to stay alive, and never know you. Or never exist and spare myself this… this damn feeling.”

“No,” John said. “Your choice is the world, Sherlock.”

“In that future, you were my world.”

“That future can never be,” John said. “But think of the love you could give others. The ways your love has already helped the world, saved the world.”

Sherlock set his mouth, and looked over at the city.

John followed his gaze, keeping his arms around him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “Let’s go down. See it properly.”

John smiled, and held Sherlock close as he took them back down to the city streets.


	10. Chapter 10

“How old are you? Were you?” Sherlock asked, as they walked. They were hand in hand, and it felt very natural.

“Thirty-five.”

“Young.”

“Older than you.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “So, that’s what happens when we die, then?” He nodded at John. “Angels. Heaven. That’s all real, then?”

“Oh, not everyone becomes an angel,” John said. “Apparently it’s very rare.”

“Something to do with our missing timeline, perhaps?”

“It seems likely. I haven’t asked. I’m just grateful to be here at all.”

They’d somehow come south of the river, and were approaching the gardens at Kew.

Sherlock’s footsteps paused. “Where are we? How did we get… did you do this?”

John made an innocent face.

“You’ll have to break your halo out for me to believe you,” Sherlock smirked, leading the way to the gates. He took out of the bars with a hand, and shook it. “Locked, at this hour, anyway.”

“Don’t be so sure.” John took his arm, and pulled him.

Straight through the locked gates and the wooden doors beyond, into the gardens, onto the gravel footpath.

Sherlock caught his breath.

The darkness was immense.

“Perhaps a little ambiance,” John murmured. And suddenly the bushes and trees lit up with soft, glowing, fairy lights. The Christmas decorations illuminated the grass, and shone on lush green leaves and firm tree-trunks, leading the way through the gardens like a pathway to a fae grotto.

Sherlock looked up and down. “I haven’t been here in years.”

“I know.” John looked wistfully at one of the large, old, buildings. “They do weddings here, now, did you know that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead led the way down the path, through the taller trees, and beneath the twinkling lights.

Sherlock followed. He felt less cold, now, as though the walls of the gardens were cutting off the wind, insulating the place from the worst of the London weather.

The gardens of Kew were spectacular, but Sherlock followed John blindly, through the plants, along the twinkling paths, to…

“Oh,” Sherlock stopped, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

“Can you skate?” John asked pushing through the locked entrance as though he owned the place.

“No. Well. I used to dance, which I suppose is almost the same thing…”

John took his hands, and pulled him onto the rink.

Skates were suddenly on Sherlock’s feet rather than his shoes, though John hovered a few inches above the ice as if his skates were invisible. He held Sherlock’s forearms firmly, until he was sure he had his balance, then did a twirl, landing as if on one leg, wobbling, and having to steady himself with his arms thrown out.

“I can see why you need those wings,” Sherlock laughed. “Look, stop trying to balance your legs. Put your balance in your stomach. Look…” he demonstrated how to keep one’s hips loose, but stomach muscles tensed. “Trust your own legs not to give way, and they won’t.”

John did as he was told, copying the movement and getting his balance easily.

Sherlock wondered if he’d been pretending.

 They skated a circle around the centre of the rectangular rink, their hands joined, or else face to face, Sherlock skating backwards as John beamed up into his face. The Christmas lights blurred and fogged behind John’s silhouette, giving him a halo, then glowing wings, then a sort of golden-white aura that surely couldn’t be from the Christmas lights alone…

Sherlock leaned in again, just as John did the same, and their kiss met softly, chasing as they skated on the abandoned ice.

It was the saddest thing Sherlock had ever done.

“How much time?” he asked.

“But a half an hour,” John said. He slowed their skating, until they came to a stop, in the centre. He put a warm hand to Sherlock’s face. “You need to exist, Sherlock Holmes. You must.”

“But I’ve only just begun to know you,” Sherlock put his hand over John’s. “How can I…”

“You’ll have tonight,” John said. “You’ll always have tonight, as so will I. Until your life ends how it’s meant to. And I’ll be watching over you, Sherlock. I’ll be watching over you, your whole life.”

“I…”

“Look at the state of the world,” John’s voice broke, and his fingers tensed on Sherlock’s temple, beaming in memories of what they’d seen, and what they knew.

Lestrade, drunk and depressed and afraid, in the pub. Spending Christmas alone.

Molly, abused and isolated, clearing away the mince pie and sherry her daughter had left out for Father Christmas, before taking herself to bed.

Mrs Hudson, counting down the days until her husband’s release, in fear.

Mycroft. A small, lonely, teenager’s grave. In a small cemetery, outside London.

Sherlock sobbed, hand to his mouth. “Please.”

John’s eyes shone.

“Please, John. I… I don’t want to stop this, but…”

“But you’re right to do so,” John said. He smiled, and it was utterly heartbreaking. “You are, Sherlock. Say it.” He took Sherlock’s hands. “Say it, Sherlock. It’s alright. I’m here.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, his throat aching, swelling up, choking the words from him. “I… I don’t want…”

John kissed him on the cheek.

“I don’t want to not exist,” he said. “I don’t wish I’d never been born. I want you to fix it. John… please…”

John sighed, and pulled him into a close hug.

Sherlock trembled, and held the angel tight, fearing he would disappear at any moment. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Hey!”

Sherlock looked up.

“Hey, you. What you doing here?”

Sherlock realised he was standing on the ice rink, in his shoes, the rubber soles gripping the ice, his coat buffeted by the wind, his arms empty.

A security guard was running to him, his torchlight flashing over the dark paths as he went to apprehend the man – Sherlock – who had broken in.

Sherlock wobbled over to the edge of the rink, and climbed out. He let the security guard take hold of him and ring the police, and even offered his name and Lestrade’s as leverage.

By the time Mycroft and Gregory arrived to collect him, Sherlock was staring deep into the middle distance, apparently watching the snowfall outside.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly, as his brother entered the room.


	11. Chapter 11

It was four months (and a quick-fire round of therapy and a new prescription) later that Sherlock found himself back at St Bart’s. Molly was working on the opposite side of the room, looking up regularly at developing samples, and at Sherlock.

Sherlock had made a point of being slightly less bristly towards her, since Christmas. Molly had responded by flirting outrageously, and Sherlock had attempted to tolerate it as best he could. It wasn’t easy.

Neither was spending time with Mycroft.

Sherlock had dipped a toe into a world without him, and it was difficult to maintain their standard level of animosity with Sherlock being aware of what things would be like if there was no Mycroft at all.

Mrs Hudson had had a daily hug from her tenant, and there had also been less gunfire than usual.

Sherlock tried to be himself. But some things got under your skin.

He went into a church, a few weeks after Christmas, and went over to one of the candle-stands, and lit a candle, thinking of John as he did so. He was aware he was being watched by the vicar, and decided not to linger in case he was engaged in conversation. He was certain that John, if John was real after all, would appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

He had to have been real.

No one could dream that, and it didn’t leave a sour enough taste in the mouth to be a Bad Trip.

And he couldn’t tell anyone.

“Coffee, Sherlock?” Molly called.

“Black, two sugars,” he said to the microscope.

“I know,” a smiling voice replied.

Some time passed. The clock ticked, and the chambers hummed, and the room was warm and peaceful.

Sherlock almost felt alright to be alive.

The door opened, in his peripheral vision.

“Oh… bit different from my day.” A voice said in breathless, polite, wonder.

“Oh, yeah…” Mike Stamford’s voice chuckled, familiar.

Sherlock looked over the eye-piece of the microscope, and his heart stopped beating. A man had come in with Stamford. No. Not a man. _The_ man.

The same man. But limping – injured. But not in the leg. Stress. Therapist.

Back from the dead.

Or… never dead at all?

Barely a second had passed, and Sherlock’s eyes were back on the microscope. His mind was sludge.

And John was there.

John.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock said, quickly thinking. “There’s no signal on mine.”

“Sorry,” Mike sighed. “It’s in my coat pocket. Can’t you use the landline?”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock allowed himself a half-glance at John, whose face was oblivious, interested, respectful, and _human_.

John – John! – reached into his own jacket. “Here. Take mine.”

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip as he reached over, to kill the smile that was threatening on his face. “Thank you,” he said, making eye contact with John.

John’s eyes were inscrutable.

Something tightened in Sherlock’s stomach.

He knew.

John _knew_ that Sherlock knew.

And that he couldn’t say anything.

Sherlock gave the tiniest of smirks. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

*

 

“Did you get your wings, then?” Sherlock asked, one evening, months later. The last few weeks had been a blur of the world righting itself. The cabbie had been caught – for the second time in Sherlock’s memory, but the first in the mind of the newspapers and the media and the police. John had killed for Sherlock. Sherlock had taken John in.

They never spoke about the Christmas Eve that never was.

Until Sherlock realised he couldn’t hurt anything by holding back his curiosity.

John looked up from his novel. “Wings, Sherlock?”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “Don’t do that. I know you remember. And you know that I know. I can see it.”

John cleared his throat. “I haven’t…” he stopped, fingers holding the pages open. “Sherlock.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock stared at him. “If you hadn’t been there, I’d be dead.”

“Which time?” John snorted.

“The first time we met. On the bridge.”

“We met at Bart’s.”

“Do you really believe that?” Sherlock murmured.

John glanced up at him. “What are you saying?”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Did you get a second chance?”

John swallowed.

“A choice, then.”

John looked back at the pages.

“Wings, or – or the missing timeline. Correct?”

John’s fingers tensed, and Sherlock knew he wasn’t trying to hide it.

“You can’t talk about it, even if I guess. Even if I deduce… you can’t say I’m right.”

A blink, in reply.

Sherlock smiled, and sat back. “That’s fair, I suppose… I was allowed to remember, after all. That requires trust, doesn’t it.” He didn’t expect John to answer, but he did.

“I trust you, Sherlock. I just hope you trust me, too.” He looked up.

Sherlock nodded. “I do, John. I do.”

“Then, that’s all that matters.” John closed the book. He stood, and stretched, and gave Sherlock a lazy sort of smile. “Choices, too.”

 

_“That – that thing you showed me…” Sherlock adjusted his coat. “…why did it blur, at the end?”_

_“Probably because it involved choices,” John said gently. “Some things are certain – or would have been. Others… we would have had to choose.”_

 

Sherlock blinked, then blushed. “Yes.”

John’s slow smile crept up one side of his face. “So.”

“So,” Sherlock repeated.

John took his coat from the peg, and tossed it to him. “I’ve heard the botanical gardens are lovely at this time of night.”

“Yes,” Sherlock stood, swirling his coat around himself. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“Come on, then” John held his hand out.

Sherlock took it.


End file.
